There’s a kind of happiness that doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need fireworks or fanfare. It just… is. Steady. Deep. Radiating from somewhere quiet and sure inside your chest.

At 55, I’m a student again. I work a secular job to make ends meet, and by most accounts, it might not look like much. But I love what I do. I look forward to every shift. The people I work with? They’re funny, kind, delightfully quirky. Being around them makes the hours fly, and I leave feeling lighter, not drained.

Outside of work, my personal projects light me up. Design challenges, knitting patterns, art explorations — they make my brain buzz in the best way. Even just thinking about them brings me joy. I look forward to my days off, not for escape, but for immersion – in errands, cooking, creating. My time is mine, and I get to spend it how I please.

And maybe most importantly: I am enough. Just me. There’s no aching void, no loneliness in my solitude. I don’t need another person to feel whole. I’m not filling space — I’m thriving in it.

This is what happiness feels like for me: a quiet, humming kind of completeness. It’s contentment with teeth, purpose with heart. It feels fucking great.

And yeah… there’s a whisper of fear that this might be fleeting, that the bubble might burst. But for now, I’m soaking it in. Fully present. Deeply grateful.